At Peace
by smaugs-mommy
Summary: What if Arwen never gave her pendant to Frodo? Chapters 1 and 2 partly rewritten.
1. Default Chapter

**Somehow I can't keep myself from editing this story...changing a sentence here, adding a word there...sorry folks...**

****

**First Chapter**

Frodo wakes with a startled cry. He does not remember any dreams, for he does not dream anymore. With the sparkling in his eyes and his laughter, his dreams have faded, too. When he falls asleep, there are no more dreams waiting for him, only flames and shadows.  
The flames do not vanish when he wakes. They are always there, burning his mind, causing him to gasp in pain and to hurt himself and others. They have already burned his soul to ashes and what is left is not worth living. Yet he can't die. The ring's last revenge is not to kill him, but to keep him alive.

And now he is awake and himself and the flames have ceased a bit. They are still there, licking at his thoughts and making him squirm, but they are not strong enough now to drag him with them.

Frodo opens his eyes and immediately closes them again; the light is burning … burning…  
Light? He sits up and looks around. That is not the dark room in which he has spent the last years. It is smaller, but it has a window. The window has no curtains and it is closed. Also, it is bigger than most of Bag End's windows.

Why is he here?  
It is early in the evening and he can hear laughter from the kitchen. Laughter, telling stories of a long lost time…

The twilight fades into night and the Shire lies enveloped in darkness but for the dim light of the moon that shines through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the hills and the silent dark waters of the Brandywine.  
But there will be no dawn, not for him.  
Even if the stars were to rain from heaven - he would always be trapped somewhere in between life and death in a nightmarish world of flames and pain.

…

He struggles, tries to escape but the man's grip is strong. With a desperate sigh Frodo takes the ring and disappears, but still, against the roaring of the eye he can hear the man's screams " At the end you will be begging for death…"

Boromir has been right.  
He wants to die now. He has asked for something to ease his pain and although his beloved ones have perfectly well understood what he meant by this they would not give him anything.

…

Perhaps…if he found something sharp in this room….  
He stumbles out of the bed and almost collapses after a few steps. His muscles are weak from lying in a bed for such a long time. He steadies himself against the wall and tries to focus on the things in the room.  
A bed and a desk, and a framed picture. The picture is in black and white, showing a boy of perhaps twenty years. He does not look at Frodo, somewhere above him in the sky seems to be something much more interesting. A tiny smile is lingering around the corners of his lips and though there are no colours in the picture Frodo feels that there must be sunlight somewhere.

" I liked the sunlight" he murmurs "Didn't I?"

…

"Don't you have any hope for Smeagol?" Frodo's voice is not more than a whisper. " Don't you think he will be able to …become the one he was... when this is over?" his voice trails of and he can feel that he is close to a faint. The ground is moving and his head is spinning. All he wants is to lie down and sleep, forever.

With a few steps Sam is at his side and catches him before he hits the earth.  
"What about Smeagol?" Frodo croaks, turning his head away as Sam tries to make him drink. Sam sighs. "I don't think there is any hope for him, no. Remember what he did to us. He is wretched. He will never change." A lonely tear trickles down his master's cheek. Sam wipes it away and tries to soothe him but it is in vain.  
"Sam" Frodo finally manages " If I become like him…please let me…die"  
There is a long a silence until Sam gives an answer. " I would never let you die, " He says. "I would not have the heart to do it…but lets not speak about such things now. You won't die Mr Frodo. Not as long as I'm with you. I promise…" Frodo does not want to hear this. It makes him feel sad and, to some extend, angry. For he knows, if he is to survive the quest, one day he will be exactly like Gollum, or even worse. He closes his eyes and soon he falls into an uneasy slumber. Sam cradles him close but Frodo is already to far away to feel it and to draw any comfort from it.

…

His eyes drop closed and he feels that he is becoming weaker again. He has not much time left. Soon he will again be a wailing wretched creature: A danger for Élanor, a burden for all the people living in this house.  
The flames are dancing in front of his eyes, building circles and faces and hands. The hands reach out and try to rip his heart out of his body.  
With a weak cry Frodo throws himself out of the window, glass is shattering all  
around him, braking as his world and soul did so many years ago.  
He gasps for breath and waits for the soothing cold of death to come, but the window was not high.

And although the thousands of sharp splinters have left innumerable deep scratches in his fair skin the wounds are not deep enough to kill him. He closes his hand around a splinter but he has no strength left. He swoons and the moon is still peering through the clouds, a diabolic grin on its face.

It is some ours before dawn when Sam finds Frodo, and it takes Sam another hour of standing frozen in shock until he bents down beside Frodo and lifts him up.  
He carries him back into the room, his hazel coloured eyes wet with tears, his hands quivering with despair. Sam puts his friend down on the bed and tucks him in neatly. Roses of blood start growing on the white blankets.

Sam is not sure whether to help Frodo or not. If he left him bleeding he would die within some hours. But Frodo has been better recently.

Better, that means he has been unconscious almost all the time.

Élanor has insisted on bringing him into a different room, into the one he used to live in when Bilbo had adopted him. Sam knows she still feels guilty for hitting Frodo's shoulder as a child. His illness has started soon afterwards and all of Sam's comforting explanations have been lost on Elanor, for she is a real Gamgee and more stubborn than her father. Caring for Frodo and trying to make his unbearable life at least acceptable help her to deal with her feelings of guilt. Sam does not make her stop doing so. He is too old to care for Frodo, too old and too deeply hurt by what has happened.

Sam looks down at the fragile form in the bed and decides to help. He has promised not to let him die. He rushes out of the room to fetch water and a few cloths. Some of Frodo's wounds seem to need stitching, yet Sam does not dare to call a healer, as Frodo has scared all the healers of the Shire too many times. If Sam went to knock at their door and ask for help, they would almost certainly not come with him.

As soon as Sam leaves the room Frodo sits up. With the little bit of consciousness that is left in him he grabs the splinter and pulls it across his left lower arm several times, until the cut is deep enough.

He is in pain, but it does not last for a long time, and then he sees it... the shore he has heard Galadriel singing about…but as the pain grows, the image soon fades, and brakes and what is left is a soothingly cool darkness. He feels embraced and lifted and strong dark wings take him somewhere where only the dead can follow…

Sam comes back only minutes later, holding a water- filled bowl in one hand and a towel in the other. He does not want to believe what he is seeing.  
He knows he should be glad, for Frodo has done once more what nobody else was able to do. Years and years his dear friend has been locked in a dark room, some mothers in the Shire kept frightening their children with stories about a monster, a daemon which was living at the Gamgees'.

Yet Sam is not glad. Too horrible is the scene in front of him; too much blood has been spilled. The blankets are almost entirely red now, and some drops have reached the wall. They are now slowly running down the wooden surface, as huge red tears trickling down a brown cheek.

This cannot be. Frodo is his friend, in spite of all the horrible last years; his friend, his master, a hobbit he has loved as he would a brother. He cannot be dead. Anyone else, but not him. Sam is old and he is wise, yet he tries to tell himself that he is dreaming and that he will soon wake up to find his friend alive and sane .He shakes his head, first sobs forcing their way out of his throat. Slowly, an awful numbness takes hold of him. It protects him from feeling too much pain, but it also causes him to realize, that he is not dreaming, that this is actually happening.

Stepping closer, Sam puts down the bowl and the piece of cloth  
and he caresses Frodo's sweat soaked curls, whispers his name, screams it, but it is not worth the effort, there will be no reaction anymore.  
Frodo remains silent and cold.  
No smile is in his face and shadows are weighing heavily on him, even in death. But at least he seems to be at peace now.

One hand is still clutching the sharp piece of glass.  
Sam uncurls the bloody fingers and wipes them clean with a towel. He searches for a sign of life, for a fluttering heartbeat or a shivering breath, but there is nothing. Frodo lies perfectly still, open eyes staring at the ceiling, small amounts of blood still pouring out of the cuts. A freezing light is falling from the moon and in that light Frodo's eyes become lakes of mere silver. Silver lakes in a landscape of white hills, a white island surrounded by dark waves.  
Sam lights a candle and its colours are playing in Frodo's wide-open eyes. Slowly some colour seems to seep back into them, until they are blue again, not that rich blue they used to have years ago, the blue of a windswept ocean, which gave you the feeling to stand at the very edge of the world, with only waters around you…no…not that kind of blue…they are now like the sky of a winter morning, blue and cold…and empty…  
A white butterfly flutters in through the destroyed window, finding a place to rest on pale cheeks, touching them like in a last feather light kiss, then it rises again to settle on Frodo's lashes and its weight is enough to close his eyes. There is one last flash of blue and then there is no more colour in his face, for even his lips have turned white.  
He looks now - in black and white - like an older and very worried version of the boy who is smiling down at them from the framed picture.  
Sam looks up.  
The young Frodo in the picture is not smiling anymore. He is weeping.


	2. Second Chapter

**Second Chapter**

"Dad?! Dad are you all right? I thought I heard noises …what has"  
Élanor bursts in, still in her nightgown, her hair flowing down her soft shoulders. She too, is carrying a candle. Her brown eyes are tired and exhausted, but when she sees the bloody blankets they widen, and Élanor gasps in shock.

Her father is sitting on Frodo's bedside, his hands are covered with blood, and he is trembling and pale, his breath coming in choked sobs. She cannot see Frodo clearly, for he is lying in Sam's shadow. He appears extremely silent and she hopes that he is asleep.

"…Oh Dad…are you…are you _hurt?_" her voice is too shrill, cutting reality into pieces.

The room seems to sway and spin around Sam and his daughter's frightened, high voice hurts his ears. " What has happened? I'm sure I heard noises, dad, please say something".

Sam does not speak. Whenever he opens his mouth, he sobs, his tongue seems to be as paralysed as his thoughts.

Silently she sits down beside Sam, peers over his shoulders and understanding stabs her like a knife. She sinks down to the floor and buries her face in her palms.

The light changes. It is beautiful morning and Sam wonders, how the weather never seems to reflect one's mood.

"Why didn't we leave him in his room?" he sobs " Why did we bring him here? We failed him, Élanor; we failed him. He could still be alive if it was not for us."  
"Alive yes" she answers, sharper than intended, and without looking at Sam. " Alive and utterly tortured."

She reaches out for her father's hand, but does not touch him.

…

(Some months before)

Frodo is still struggling, struggling for breath, for words, maybe for life. Tossing and turning in his bed he does not find rest, although Élanor has drugged him twice that day already. Some times Frodo is strong, too strong for his own good, and resistant against everything. These are the worst days, when the sedatives do not work and Élanor has to wait for Frodo to pass out from exhaustion.

" Let me go!" he wails and bangs his head against the wall. Once. Twice, three times and then young Merry and Frodo-lad enter the room. " Do you need help?" Merry asks. Élanor nods.  
She wants to close her eyes, seeing that her brothers approach the bed makes her squirm, and she hurries out of the room when she hears Frodo scream in anguish.  
Usually, she would have stayed with him, but her own son is ill with measles and needs her more than Frodo does now.

She is terrified, by what Frodo has become, yet desperate to help him.

" I hate you," she hisses at the door " I hate you and I do not want to see you again. " She does not mean it, and four days later her child is better and she is again standing at Frodo's bedside. It is night and he is asleep.  
As she tries to lift him up his head lolls back and he opens his bloodshot eyes. " You … still here?" he whispers barely audible " a child of your age should be outside, enjoying the sunshine" She does not tell him that it is winter and dark outside, she does not tell him that she is not a child anymore. " I like to be with you" she lies and decides to play along " Perhaps I will go out later" Frodo' s lips curve into a tiny smile. " Then…would you mind to read me a story? You have learnt your letters haven't you?" " Yes" she answers " you taught me" " Did I?" he asks with genuine surprise in his voice " I don't remember … I seem to grow old…"Élanor interrupts him, before he can fall into the sort of thoughts which will only hurt him," What do you want me to read? Something from your book?"  
Nodding, he points towards the desk and Élanor fetches the big red book.  
She has seen him writing in it so often, years ago when the shadows were not as strong as they are now. She opens the book, and her rosy cheeks grow pale.  
Frodo's spidery letters are small, so very small that she has problems in reading them.

Frodo has written hundreds of pages, but they are all saying the same four words, again and again:

Please let me die  
" Élanor lass, are you alright?" Frodo asks when she starts to sob silently. " Yes" she says, " it's just the story…it is so sad…" And she begins to tell him a story.

…

"Once upon a time there was a gardener. He lived alone in his small garden, which was surrounded by a huge desert. Often had he tried to get out of the desert but it seemed to enlarge around him and so he finally gave up hope to find a way out of it. Nobody was with him, yet he didn't feel alone. He had his roses, beautiful red roses and sometimes at night he thought he could hear them sing. In the gardener's small paradise there was a river. The river was of a deep blue, and when the gardener looked into it he had the odd feeling to look into the eyes of a friend … but of course that was only a feeling. He was alone and he never had friends save for the roses.  
However, the longer the gardener sat at the riverside the more he longed for a real friend. He loved his roses and he felt responsible for them … but he missed someone to whom he could speak…and who would answer…  
The days went by and the gardener dwelled alone only with the roses and the wind in the desert to keep him company. Things didn't change except for the river…it gave less and less water and the flowers faded away. The gardener needed some of the water for himself…he could not give all of it to his flowers. He spent endless nights in the fields of roses, bending over them and weeping bitterly…little did his tears to help the flowers…and one morning he awoke and saw that all the green grass had turned brown, the red flowers were black and the blue river was nothing but a small pool of mud. The trees had lost their leafs and their dark branches rose into the air in a pleading gesture … The birds had left and their singing could be heard no more. The gardener wanted to lie down under the trees and die. He stumbled towards the biggest tree…often had he spent the hot days under its green shelter of leafs…he fell to his knees and closed his eyes…  
Then he heard a noise, like a stifled scream. The gardener looked up and shrank away for something was falling from heaven .At least that was how the gardener described it to himself.  
Whatever it was, it was falling and with a dull sound it came to lie beside him. The gardeners brown eyes widened a bit. The being beside him was very much like him …just a bit smaller and more delicate. Was that the friend he had longed for? Gently, the gardener touched the other one's cheek. The other one moaned and then his eyes fluttered open. The gardener was not too surprised to see that they were exactly of the colour the river had once.  
"Hello …" the gardener muttered " Where …where ...are you from? And what are you doing…here? "  
The other one shrugged and turned his questioning eyes on the gardener  
" Where is _here_?"  
He asked in respond. The gardener was silent for a moment  
" here that is… in the dying gardens…"  
The other one sat up and looked around, his frail white fingers stroking softly over the wasted grass " Dying?" he repeated and he frowned. " Why is it dying?" " There is no water " the gardener said " But don't worry. They are dying, but still alive, and as long as they are living we can still help them" The appearance of the other one had brought hope to the gardener.  
The night came quickly and they lay down under the tree and talked for hours. Mostly, it was the gardener who spoke, the other one stayed silent, listening to the gardener's tales with a smile lingering at the corners of his lips.  
The gardener woke first, when the sun was just rising. His friend was still sleeping; dark lashes resting peacefully on his cheeks. In the dim light of the early morning he was even paler than in the evening. The gardener sighed and tried to get back to sleep…but he could not…there was a sound in the clear air of the morning. And after a moment he recognized it: The birds were coming back.

The gardener and his new friend spent many days in the garden, which now became again what it had been before: A small green island within the endless desert.  
The gardener's only sorrow was his friend.  
The strength seeped out from him and into the garden and he turned withered and grey. The gardener cared for his friend as best as he could, but he could not stop what was happening…

After two years the friend went for a walk at night, while the gardener was lost in peaceful dreams. He did not know why he was leaving. But he knew that he had to. Perhaps it was time to return where he came from. He left the garden behind him and sat down in the sand, thinking. He had given the garden all he could. The time in the garden, with the gardener and his roses had been the best time he had ever had…but perhaps he was just thinking that because he could not remember how life had been before he came here.  
He lifted his head and whispered the names of the evening stars as they flowered above him.

It was just then when he realized that there was somebody else whispering with him. Smiling he stood up and turned around to welcome the gardener. But he was not there. The whispering drew nearer and then the gardener's friend saw a small yellow snake, which had curled up around his furry feet. He almost panicked. The gardener had told about these snakes…they were highly venomous …  
to his terror the snake started to wind itself around his legs …and then the cold body wrapped around his chest, so that there were only inches between their faces. He wriggled, trying to free himself, but the serpent laughed.  
" Don't be frightened " it soothed " I'm not here to scare you…I'm here to help you"  
_" help_ me?! " The gardeners friend shouted. The snake nodded. " You feel spent," it said and sorrow glimmered in its eyes, as if the serpent was about to weep. " Spent" it continued " and old, don't you? And that is just the beginning. It will become worse and in the end you will die screaming in pain. With naught but the desert around you. You will live longer than anything in that desert for you will bring destruction upon every living being" The gardeners friend started to sob and to mumble incoherent words " me…? Destruction…? I …I c-c-could never …"  
" You love your friend dearly...," the serpent whispered and her grip around the little one's chest grew tighter. " You don't want him to suffer…" He shook his head. And still tears were cascading down his cheeks, they fell onto the sand and the dry ground drank them eagerly.  
"Let me bite you…"the serpent continued " you will be dead within minutes. I don't know…perhaps you won't even feel pain, I do not know…for I never died…Let me bite you. It will be better for you, and for you friend."  
"You will poison me?" he asked.  
The snake laughed sadly "my dear, don't you see…you _are_ already poisoned"  
He sighed " And the gardener will be save then?"  
The serpent gave no answer.  
" You won't let me suffer unnecessarily, will you?" he asked and the snake let go of him.  
" be sure" it hissed, " I won't. It will be fast; you won't be in too much pain. We will meet here at dawn. "  
And with these words it disappeared in the darkness.

The gardener was already awake and searching for his friend when he returned. His friend was weeping. The gardener tried to soothe him, longed to understand what his friend wanted to tell him  
"…don't come watching... I don't want you to see it…and after all… the serpent might bite you after it has bitten me…but perhaps …they have just poison for one bite…and when you come in the morning…don't weep for me… you will think I'm dead but that is an illusion I won't be dead…just…somewhere …else…I will no longer be in pain dearest friend…."

At dawn he met the serpent again, it was like yellow flash around his ankle and then he fell; he staggered at his knees and lied out flat; slowly and as quiet as a child falling asleep, and when the morning's light came there is nothing left of him.

Élanor 's lips start to quiver, and the rest of the story comes out in little sobs.

"…He has gone … and the gardener searches … but doesn't find him … he has grown so thin maybe he was only light at the end … and he has taken little what was left of his fragile body with him. And as the gardener goes back to his garden, all the flowers are children and they are singing for him and …and…"

She wants to go on, but she cannot. Sobbing soundless she sits at Frodo' s bedside and watches him sleeping. His hands are clenching the duvet in pain with each single breathing, his eyes are moving restlessly under swollen lids. He seems to be fading away. Or maybe he has already faded, for sometimes, when he is asleep Élanor can barely see him.

'He cannot stay in this room 'she thinks' we have to help him…he needs the light…'

The weeks proceed and Frodo is asleep for almost all the time. Élanor decides to bring him into another room and she figures that the room where he slept when he was a tweenager is the best one. It is the one with the biggest window, with the most light.  
The room itself is small, but not dark.  
She goes back to her uncle's room. Gently lifting him up, she feels that a part of him has already fled.  
Élanor opens the big window and hopes that the scent of the fresh air is a comfort to Frodo.  
Her thoughts are interrupted by Merry.  
"Élanor!" he shouts, " How do you dare! Have you forgotten that he is _dangerous_? "  
Élanor shakes her head " I don't think he is dangerous anymore. Just sleeping …"  
Merry 's frown deepens and he looks as if he was about to become really angry.

But instead of shouting at her, he flings his arms around the young woman and hugs her tight " Élanor, my sister" he says, " Our uncle is destroying our life … and yet I can not manage to be angry. I only feel pity for him…"

…

"I'm sorry, Dad" she sighs, finally pressing his hand " It was my idea to bring him here…I thought the sunlight could heal him"  
Sam muffles a sob " He was already far beyond healing. We should have known that. We should have ended it, when we still had the possibility to do so"  
"Dad… none of us was able to end it" she steps closer to the bed. " Let's get him out of those bloody covers. I don't want him to face dawn like that. I will go and get Mum when we are done here …"

…

(Shire, Frodo is about 22)

Frodo is sitting in the garden, pale and much to skinny, but very content. He hasn't been in the garden or outside for almost a year now.  
Bilbo is drawing a picture of him and to amuse the young hobbit he tells him a tale about a magical picture, which does not show the person, but the person's feelings. Since Bilbo has told Frodo a lot of stories (most of them in the endless nights when he was keeping vigil at his nephew's sickbed) and some turned out to be true, Frodo believes in the tale about the picture, and keeps checking it for changes every day. The years go by and it does not change, always showing the smiling young boy.

…

(Cirith Ungol)

They are gone.

The orcs are gone, and they have taken their whips and knifes with them.

Yet the silence does not bring relies, for  
as long as the orcs are trying to get information out of Frodo he is in too much pain to hear the voices.

The screaming, screeching, stinging voices between his temples. Now that the orcs have left him alone, he can hear the voices more clearly then ever. And they close up around him like waves, like an ocean of madness….

You 

Stop it…please

Cannot 

The door is locked and no matter how often he flings himself against it, it will not open

_Cannot hide _

_  
_But he must

_Hide! _

Despairing he sinks down, stays huddled against the cold wall, his small form shifting with shallow uneven breaths

_Eye sees… _

_…_

(Minas Tirith)

" Shshsh…calm down…. You're dreaming …"

…. lying in a huge bed …  
…white stones….  
_….where am I…._

" I died" Frodo murmurs " and I hurt Élanor…hurt you all... "

Someone touches his cheeks and brow lightly with a wet cloth  
" no…you're not going to die…you fell out of your bed…you had a nightmare…but…everything is alright now…" The voice sounds familiar.  
Is it Sam? But what does that mean? Has Sam died too?

"Wake up" the someone with Sam's voice begs.  
Wake up?  
Was it a dream ?  
Frodo sighs, his fingers curling around the pendant, his eyes shut tightly. It seemed so real…and perhaps he is dreaming again right now…


	3. Third chapter

**Summary:** same

**Disclaimer:** Sam and Frodo are property of incomparable Mr Tolkien. The idea is Skye's. The writing is mine.

**AN**: I apologize for the ending being so cruel. Once I'm in a better mood I'll write a more cheerful ending.

_**Third chapter**_

_(Minas Tirith)_

From far below, he can hear people singing, the sound of heavy boots, and now and then laughing voices. The breeze is cold on his face.Frodo struggles to stay awake, or to wake up. He cannot keep dreams from reality anymore, and he is scared.Again, someone is wiping away sweat and tears, using a cloth that smells of athelas.

"…I did_… what_?"

" You fell out off your bed," Sam's voice is soft and soothing as always.

_Sam, dear Sam, what will I turn you into?_

" …and you hit your head on the stone floor. You've been unconscious for hours"

Unconscious…that at least explains why he can't remember anything. The dark-haired hobbit sighs deeply, his fingers searching for something on his chest.

_"It's gone!"_ he screams.

Outside people stop laughing. The naïve happiness of people who have been through dark times can be shattered so easily. They look up to a window with long white curtains, wondering if there will never be an end to the pain. Inside a chubby hobbit caresses his friend's cheeks.

"I know it is," he says. "shshsh, find rest now. You will heal. You will forget the ring."

"I was not…I did not mean the ring. I was talking about the gem."

Sam's hazel eyes are widening at these words. " A gem?" he asks.

"Oh," Frodo smiles. " I forgot to tell you. Arwen gave me a pendant; it will…" he doesn't speak on, seeing the expression on Sam's face.

"There has never been a gem, Mr Frodo" soothingly the gardener rubs his master's hands and arms.

Outside the people are laughing again.

_&&&_

_(The Shire, winter, some years ago)_

He is wrapped into a grey cloak, the hood is pulled down, cowering most of his face. Lonely Sam stands at the frozen river, watched by a starless winter sky. It is a cold night.When he breathes white clouds form in front of his face, and then there is a soft sound, as if the air was singing. Many years ago Frodo has told him, that the sound results from the very breath turning to ice. The old hobbit wipes at his cheeks. Thinking of Frodo feels like being stabbed right through the heart.

Tomorrow his grandchildren want to go out to play on the river. Carefully Sam puts a foot onto the ice, to see if it carries his weight.

It does not.

It moans and cracks open, revealing the swift dark water that lies beneath. The crack widens and a new appears, until the white surface of the ice is covered with black, lightening-shaped scars. Two mighty ice floes brake apart and are carried away into different directions. They make the grey-haired hobbit weep harder, for they remind him of Frodo, and of how they had been one and whole, and of how they will never mend again.

&&&

He is gasping harshly when he arrives at BagEnd. Yet he feels neither tired nor exhausted, and although he knows that Rosie is waiting for him it is Frodo he wants to see.

His hands are red and cold, the wooden door is even colder. Frodo's face is still and white, and cold as ice.

" Master, dear Master," Sam's voice has lost all its strength; it is now nothing more than a hoarse, desperate whisper.

Frodo hears it nevertheless and he recognizes it. It is not the first time he hears those words.His grey eyes flutter open, and he smiles at the one who has spoken. It is a good smile. A true smile, the one that will haunt Sam until he dies. A smile that reminds him of how things used to be. The eyes close, the smile withers, the room darkens.

Sam sits down on a chair and waits for a new morning to come. Now that he is sitting, he realizes that his legs are too tired to carry on. Rose is sleeping (or waiting for him) next door, but he does not find the strength to stand up. Neither does he find the peace to fall asleep. He remains awake until the sun casts a weak light through the window. The window itself is covered with icicles; each of them is a small white flower. The skinny figure under the thick blankets stirs and stretches. Frodo is smiling again, seemingly not troubled by anything. His eyes are questioning, and there is an air of confusion to his whole face, yet the greyish orbs are friendly. Sitting up he spots the reflections on the wall.

As the sun is gaining her strength, the icicles start to melt, and while they fade away they reflect the sun's light. " Look, Mr Frodo!" Sam stands up and opens the window. The coloured sparks keep dancing across the wall and the ceiling. "Isn't it beautiful?" asks Sam.

Silence.

Frodo hesitates like a child who is asked to answer a far too difficult question. Then his eyes turn cold.

"No" he hisses and looks down onto his hands. There are deep scratches on both of his thin arms. With a mad howl he starts to draw on the welts until fresh blood is soiling his nightgown and the duvet.

"Frodo, no!"

Bang 

The window is closed.

Will remain closed for a long time.

"Don't! Please stop this."

Sam could as well be talking to the walls, or to the frozen river.

He tries to take Frodo by his arms, but in spite of being

(as)

meagre

(as Gollum used to be)

the fragile hobbit is strong, much stronger than Sam.

More blood, thick and red and smelling slightly rotten. The hobbit with the huge grey eyes laughs loudly. " Fool!" he slurs. " Fool, it is mine, you shall never have it" Fits of coughing rage through his delicate body, but he does not stop laughing, although he is spitting blood with each exhalation. Sam sinks down again, onto the chair on which he has spent the night. He covers his eyes. How much he would love to wake up from this nightmare.

If only he knew how to help his master.

If only there was a way to end Frodo's sufferings. Another way than killing the poor one.

How long has Sam been sitting there, denying the undeniable?

He does not know. But when he opens his soft brown eyes, everything has changed.

Frodo is silent. And Rosie has entered the small room; she has heard the coughing and the cruel cackling laugh. She is holding the struggling Frodo in her arms as if he was a child. But no child of the Shire or any other free land of Middle-Earth would have had such lifeless eyes. No child would struggle that hard against a mother's touch. The hobbit is tossing and trashing as if caught in a web. Rose whispers words of comfort, not paying any attention to the bloodstained blankets.

Soon Frodo does not move at all anymore. His head is resting against her shoulder, his arms hanging limply to both sides of his body.

He has fallen asleep.

"Sam, we have to end this," her voice is grave and her eyes are empty. " We have to end this before it puts an end to all of us"

&&&

The darkness has passed; the flames are gone. He is not burning anymore. And this time it has been Rose who chased his fears away. He has no strength left to thank her. " Tomorrow," Frodo thinks, "Tomorrow I will".

He sleeps a deep dreamless sleep. It is dark when he wakes up, but if it is the darkness of yet another endless night or if his eyes are failing on him, he cannot tell. He waits many hours for Rosie to come, and finally the door opens and she comes.

"Rose..."

She yelps and flinches. " Rose…" a croaking, almost destroyed voice. " Rose…sorry…"

Hesitatingly she puts down whatever she has been holding in her hands. She sits down at the bed's edge and cups Frodo's chin in her hands, her white hair falling around his face like a veil.

"I know," she says. " But don't be sorry. Nothing is your fault. Nothing."

(And yet that is exactly what she has been yelling at Sam the other night. "It is all his fault! If it wasn't for Frodo everything would still be alright!" She did not mean to say such words, but it has happened, and it still hurts her.)

The shadow of a smile flies across Frodo's face. " Rose, I wanted to say thank you."

" Thank you?" She is scared. What does that mean? Is he dying?

_'Don't be a fool, Rose,' _she thinks with a sudden clarity. _He has been dying ever since he returned from the journey…_

Although those are wise thought, they are wrong.

"Yes," says Frodo " You saved me. You chased away the flames."

Recognition is spreading over her whole face. Recognition followed by deep resignation.

"Frodo – that was two moths ago..."

&&&

Élanor and Sam change the blankets; they cover Frodo's wounds and wash his hair. They are not interrupted by anyone. Frodo has been silent all his life, and now he has left it without a noise.

Sam and his daughter are the only ones awake.

Rose will get up soon, to feed the goats and to look after her ducks, but right now silence gives them the peace they need to say farewell.

The sun rises and Frodo is lying upon white blankets, eyes closed, hands folded over his narrow chest.

He does not look like a sleeping hobbit; his features are too pale, his lips too lax.

He has left and all is over.

Élanor kisses his temples.

_(Tell me a story, uncle Frodo! I want to hear more about your journey. A fire burning in the oven. A different fire burning in Frodo's eyes. A will to fight as long as possible. "A long time ago, when your dear dad had just found out that he was in love with...ouch" and Sam who 'helped' Frodo telling his story. )_

"It is time to tell Rose. I will go, sit down, father".

She leaves the room and does not look back.

&&&

_"Momma!" _A sharp scream. A thud. Silence.

Sam waits for another few moments, and then he stands up and rushes into the bedroom.

His daughter is lying on the dark floor, pale as snow, not moving.

Some of his other children are still living at home, in BagEnd, and they have heard the scream. One after another they appear on the threshold, rubbing their eyes in disbelief.

They have lost their mother.

&&&

(_BagEnd, Frodo is 22)_

Two young hobbits are sharing an apple. They sit on a small stonewall and enjoy the day's last rays of sun. " And you're really healthy now?" The smaller, fair-haired hobbit looks up with both worry and admiration in his big brown eyes. The older, tweenaged hobbit smiles and ruffles through the other's curls. " Of course I am," he laughs. " And believe me, I do not want to be ill, lying in a dark room for ages, ever again".

&&&

(_BagEnd, Present)_

Half the Shire is invited to come to Rosie's funeral.

Tomorrow they'll burry her, under an old tree, and they'll plant forget-me-not, and those white beautiful flowers, which Merry brought from Edoras years ago.

They have buried Frodo already, before someone could find out, before someone could ask. They have wrapped his fragile frame into soft blankets, and they put him to rest in the garden behind BagEnd.

It is night, when Frodo's senses return.

For he cannot die.

He never will.

_I am not dead…I can't die. I should have known._

Worms make their way through the soft linens; dark earth is all around him. But he does not scream for help, for he knows he will only destroy those he loves.

Each spring Sam tries to plant roses on the grave, but they wither before they can blossom.

THE (first) END


End file.
